Seduce a Stranger
by Romanoma
Summary: Spain hasn't failed to notice Romano is growing into a handsome, young nation. Unluckily for Romano, nor has he failed to notice all of those suspicious midnight outings. What kind of trouble is he getting himself into? Spamano. SpaRoma. RomaSpa.
1. Chapter 1

**Seduce a Stranger**  
><strong>Part 1<strong>

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><p>Normally barefoot, Spain keeps his dusty pumps on, though he folds the heel beneath his foot so he can still feel the grass tickling his skin. Sweat is pouring from his forehead, under his arms and down the delicious curve of his back. He swipes it clean from his skin with the dirtied hem of his shirt before it can sting his eyes, blinking furiously to focus against wincing sunlight.<p>

The long-limbed figure of his henchman has just appeared upon the brim of the dustpath. Spain's smile is fluid, quickly cascading when he remembers he's not very pleased with Romano today.

"Romano, where have you been?" Spain calls breathlessly, Romano just now at the fading swell of the hillside, dressed to the nines in silk, cotton and leather finery; sweeping tailcoat and high-waisted trousers imported from home (at Spain's expense, of course). Romano barely pauses to glance his way. He's Spain's youthful opposite now, quick-stepped and sharp-tongued, wittier than he's given credit for, albeit with a sting bleeding a little more poison than Spain would like.

He trudges by without a word, nose in the air, prim black lace-ups leaving prints in the dirt. Only pausing to pluck a plump tomato from the basket on the floor, he sinks his teeth into the flesh, wiping juice and seeds from his chin, cocking Spain a look over his shoulder as he licks the remnants from the arch of his thumb. Spain blushes; too much sun, he assumes, brow knitting as he bends to hoist the final basket under one arm, flicking the tip of his sunhat and following Romano towards the house.

"Romano, I asked you a question," he continues when he reaches the open kitchen door, dangling vines brushing his forehead even as he dips to avoid them. A wayward leaf grips his hair. Tugging it free, he lets it flutter to the floor. "You've been gone since this morning. I was starting to worry."

Romano is slicing bread, casual and collected, half eaten tomato left to wither, a wooden bowl of fresh olive oil already poured beside him. "I was out," he clarifies, shrugging. He dips a chunk into the bowl, devouring it in seconds, a rebellious drip trickling down his chin. "I don't always have to ask for your permission, do I?"

Spain slides the basket alongside the others, dusting his hands on his breeches. Hand on hip, he says, "No, but it would be courteous if you at least told me you were going out. What if something had happened to you? How would I know where to find you?"

Romano smirks in a way Spain finds thoroughly unnerving, a smirk so utterly unsuited to him that he feels the hairs on his arms stand on prickling like heat. "You not knowing where to find me would be a fucking blessing, you bastard," he says, swinging precariously on his stool. His daredevil smirk remains as he tears a slice of bread into three, folding and dipping. Stung by the comment, but not unused to those remarks, Spain only pursues his cause, pushing Romano's stool flat to the floor.

"You're going to fall and crack your head open if you keep doing that," he notes as if he hasn't repeated the same information a hundred times or more. Romano rolls his eyes. "And don't be a brat, I just care about what happens to my little Roma-Roma."

Romano's face darkens like sun behind clouds. "Don't call me that," he growls, hopping from the stool. He leaves it as a barrier between them, jabbing his finger into Spain's sweat-dampened chest. "I'm _Italy_. Not 'Roma' or 'Romano' or anything else."

Spain doesn't miss a beat, plucking Romano's hand from its abusive endeavour, smile warm like his heart, pulling his hand to his lips to brush soft kisses over protruding knuckles, delighting in the fading fragrance of Eastern import oils thieved from Spain's personal washroom.

"Don't be silly, I've always called you by that name. 'Italy' is your cute little brother's name-"

Spain recoils, blinking the sting of a sudden and sharp pain from his eyes. Staring at Romano as though he has never seen him before, he lifts his hand to his cheek, proving to himself that Romano has just hit him. "Wha...why did..." he tries, words stumbling in his throat. His eyes glimmer with hurt and surprise.

"I said not to call me that," Romano says simply, voice tight, harsh. "I am not a child. I am not 'Romano'. I am just as much 'Italy' as my idiot, bastard brother and don't you ever, ever forget that!"

Romano sweeps clear of the kitchen, the thud of his feet on the stairs echoing through the house. Spain's hand slowly falls from his cheek, the heat from his skin soaking into his fingertips. Wordlessly he tidies away Romano's mess, methodically placing items in their respective homes and then sinking into the previously occupied stool, as always in matters of Romano, _confused_.

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><p>Spain has fallen asleep in his chair again. Romano didn't come down for dinner, but he did eat the bowl of spicy stew left by his bedroom door. He couldn't be too angry to have finished his dinner, Spain had thought before he drifted off, throwing his legs up on a cushion atop an ottoman, fingers entwining comfortably on his stomach.<p>

Soft snores drift from within the modest sitting room, air midnight hot and thick and dry. Romano is peering into the room, judging for signs of wakefulness, or at least sobriety. There's no emptied bottle of wine or sherry at the side of his chair, but Spain seems dead to the world anyway.

Romano glances over his shoulder, down the night-lit hallway. The remaining servants have long since retired to bed. The hall at the top of the reception stairs is flickering with a candle left to guide master to bed - or to tempt deviant youngsters into mischief. He knows he's taking a chance here; will Spain sleep all night here or retire to bed in the early hours, poking his head into his protectorate's room before wobbling back to the pleasant nothingness of sleep? He feels lucky, boots in his hands as he tip-toes past the door, holding his breath, steeling himself for the race home before the moon dies and the sun rises.

Spain continues to snore, head rolling to his shoulder. Romano peers around the other side of the doorframe, grinning, backing away quietly. He winces when he bumps into an ornate cabinet, gathering all of his grace and dexterity to catch the antique pot he sends flying, hooking the garish object where shin and foot meet. Quickly gathering it into his arms, he carefully places it back, chancing a final peak into the room to ensure Spain is still sound asleep, almost worried the thudding of his heart might wake him.

Wasting no more time, he tugs his boots up over his stylish trousers and slips out of the open door, jacket cast across his shoulder.

His night-time excursions had made him feel guilty at first, fooling Spain, finding ways to cover his tracks so he would be none the wiser. Then it had turned into a daring game, strategic and fun, a means to get one over on Spain without him even knowing about it. The more often Romano successfully executed a plan, the more confident he grew and the easier it got each time. He knows the habits of the servants better than they know themselves; knows when Spain will retire, knows how likely it is he will fall asleep depending on what he's done with his day; knows which doors and windows are left open and which ones make the least noise.

It 's so easy for him now, it's almost boring.

Easy is the reason Spain, woken by the servants' cat winding around his legs, cracks open an eye in time to see Romano dart past the sitting room window. It takes him a moment to process the scene before he's on his feet, legs swift to bring him to the sill, flicking the catch to peer into the dark. Romano pauses for a moment to swing his jacket around his shoulders and Spain takes a breath, shielding himself behind the curtain, and then he's off again, vanishing into the woodland.

Is he seeing things, Spain wonders, rubbing his eyes. Is he still dreaming, perhaps, but his dreams are normally only vivid after several glugs of sherry, so he dismisses that thought quickly, squinting into the dark.

"Where are you going...?" he murmurs to himself, plucking the curtain aside. Night is still again, not a breeze, not a sound. Sighing, he closes the window, fingers idly brushing his cheek still hot from the smack of long fingers.

The path Romano has taken heads into the nearest town, a place by the sea, morning and night heaving with traders of all kinds. There is plenty there to entertain a seeming seventeen year old boy: dancing and drink and food and pretty young things ready to be charmed by his foreign tongue and youthful looks.

Spain is taken aback by the burn of jealousy in the centre of his chest, fingers drifting down to sooth, trickling over his heart. It's been some time since he's felt the sensation he'll admit, but never over Romano, his little Romano. His hand closes into a fist, eyes darkening. He wants to know what he's doing, who he's with, how long he's been sneaking out at night for secret rendezvous with strangers.

No, he's not a child anymore, nor has he been for some time. Spain is not oblivious enough to miss Romano growing into something new, something different, something dangerous and tricksy and deceitful. His throat rumbles with a predatory growl.

_This_he has felt before, the ache of losing another of his children, hot and powerful and maddening.

At least for now, Spain is fortunate. Romano doesn't yet realise he's been caught.

**TBC~**


	2. Chapter 2

_I don't know what I'm doing with this. Nothing ever goes in the direction I expect |D Thank you for the reads and reviews everyone. You are rather lubbly._

**Seduce a Stranger**

**Part 2**

Romano is bored. The evening's clientele is all the faces he's complimented, all the lips he's sampled, all the voices he's heard crying out in ecstasy. He pushes his second glass of brandy between his hands, eyes lifting to the door every time someone new comes in, lowers them again when it's no one exciting, just another nobody looking for company.

This is his usual haunt. The place reeks of wine, sherry, sweaty labourers and the nose tickling aroma of coffee beans. It makes his eyes water. A man two tables across gives him a nod. Romano rolls his eyes and turns his back to him, bristling with irritation. One blow job and suddenly he becomes his personal whore, _no thank _you_ very much, bastard_; the guy had a tiny dick anyway.

He wonders if he could have everyone in town based on his recent successes. There is certainly time for him to try and there is nothing else to occupy himself with just lately, beyond the terribly dull and back-breaking task of tearing idiotic red fruit from swaying vines. Plus, the locals have fallen in love with him, the exotic Italian youth with dangerous hips and rebellious lips and a penchant for lines Don Juan would be proud of.

Barking in annoyance, he downs his brandy, thumps his chest and slides to his feet, smoothing out his clothes and sweeping out of the place, peacock eyes following his swift exit in disappointment. He laps it up, enjoying the attention, knowing what it would take to win every last one of them over.

It's a quiet night. Romano considers high-tailing it home and climbing into bed to get some well-needed sleep, but then he notices a street vendor is open late and selling off the last of his churros cheap. Grinning at his good luck, he digs into his pocket and saunters over, purchasing an enormous bag to demolish. He cradles them to his chest as he strolls along the seafront, warm, wet sand massaging his toes, sea air twisting around his hair, salt clinging to his skin. It smells good; like freedom and adventure, like the scent that always used to follow Spain home...

Pausing, he looks down at the half eaten bag of churros; angrily hurls them into the sea. Damn Spain, he thinks, nails leaving half-moons in his palms, _damn him_, _that bastard, _making him feel this way, making him do this.

"Lad, are you alright there?"

Romano turns, head spinning from the suddenness. A man in his forties (Romano is good with ages - he's had a lot of practice judging them) is standing a few metres away, hands in his pockets. He has fisherman's boots dusted with sand all the way to the thigh and on his shoulder is a heaving satchel, unfastened. "I'm fucking fine," Romano growls, folding his arms. "What the fuck are you watching me for?"

The man shrugs, hoisting his satchel a little higher and scratching the beginnings of stubble on his chin. Romano can hear it. It reminds him of the mornings after Spain has had too much to drink and wakes up late in the afternoon with a shadow of hair spreading down his neck, so he sticks his boot into the sand and flings a load of it into the sea to make himself feel better, ignoring the voice in his head mocking him for the futility of it.

"What's the matter?"

Romano gives him an incredulous look. "What the fuck business is that of yours?" he demands, jabbing a finger his way. His stomach grumbles. He wishes he hadn't so hastily discarded the last of his dessert.

"It isn't my business, that doesn't mean I don't care," the man says. He lowers himself to the sand with a grunt, flicking his satchel strap over his head. When he pats the sand next to him, Romano only hesitates for a few seconds and then obediently walks closer (though he manages to make it all of his own design). He doesn't sit, idly rocking on his heels. "'Italia', isn't it? That's your nickname?"

That's what Romano goes by in town. He jerks his head affirmatively, glancing down. "So why are you wasting good churros on the sea? It will only spit them out again. Or the seagulls will have them," the man laughs, drawing a knee up. He leans on it, looking out at the ocean, wistful. "I used to sit here and watch the ocean and the stars for hours when I was your age. Always wanted to be a sailor, you know, off on all those adventures, exploring new lands. Seems like everything's been found these days though. Oh well, what-"

He starts when Romano flops gracelessly beside him. Quiet for a moment, he fiddles with the strap on the shin of his trousers, unclipping and reclipping it. "I hate the sea," he says, matter-of-fact, leaning back on his elbows. "It takes people away in one way or another. I fucking hate it."

The man smiles. "I suppose it can do," he answers, eyes drifting from the sea to Romano. They sweep up and down the length of his body, not scrutinising, only curious. "My name is Benigno, by the way."

"I don't fucking care."

"Well, now you know," Benigno says brightly. Both are quiet afterwards. Romano watches him out of the corner of his eyes. The damp night air is making his hair curl at the ends. His nose is a little crooked, but his eyes are bright blue and his jaw is firm, not attractive the way Spain is, nothing like him at all even, but interesting to look at; different. Romano finds himself admiring his features until Benigno turns to him and smiles toothily. "Is there something on my face?" he laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. Romano's cheeks bleed pink, so he looks away, glad it's only moonlight lighting his features. Fingers dig into the sand, rolling pebbles between them.

"I don't fucking know what's on your face, I wasn't looking," he insists, glancing sideways at him. Benigno is still smiling at him. "What's wrong with your face, stop smiling, dammit."

"It's strange," Benigno says, leaning back on his hands. He flicks a curl out of his eyes, Romano asking what exactly is so damn strange. "I've heard a lot of things about you."

A sudden breeze makes Romano's arms explode with goosepimples. He sits up, folding his arms and drawing his knees up to his chest. "What things have you heard about me? Not that I care," he asks, cheeks deepening Rioja red. He shouldn't be embarrassed, not really, not when he's become so practised at what he does. "It's probably not true."

"No? Oh, well, I suppose that's that then, isn't it?" Benigno says, grinning now. "I heard you were the town's little charmer, but I guess not."

Romano fills up with pride, sitting up straight. "Maybe that bit is true," he notes, smirking at him. Stretching his arms out, he raises them above his head and yawns, shaking a bit of stiffness out of his limbs. The night has improved, he decides, again glancing sidelong at Benigno. He's looking back, head on hand on elbow on knee, smiling that ingratiating, familiar smile, cherry tomato sweet. "Is that all you've heard, old man?"

When Benigno laughs, Romano feels a tickle in his chest and a flutter in his belly, yelping when his hand ruffles his hair. Shoving him off with a laugh of his own, he hangs onto his hand, holding it loosely against his thigh. "Bastard, you got fucking sand in my hair!"

He wets his lips, fingers tracing circles over weathered knuckles. This one he quite likes, so seducing him is going to be easy enough and maybe less of an effort than usual. When their eyes meet, Beningo's expression has softened, his thumb stroking back and forth over his thigh. "You've got my hand there, hm?" he says lightly, voice only a trickle. Then he sighs, slowly breaking contact between them. "I've heard a lot of things. Some probably a little less favourable than others."

Romano doesn't flinch; instead his chest feels heavy, like he's taken too much air and can't exhale. Smile wan, he leans nearer, fingers winding over a firm, muscular thigh. "Is that why you spoke to me then, bastard?" he whispers, tongue smoothing over first his lower lip, then upper. They taste like salt and chocolate.

"No, I didn't see your face until you turned."

Romano isn't put off by the dismissal, smirking and dipping his head, eager to please.

He blinks when he finds himself pushed upright again, Benigno's expression now serious, parent-like. Romano sees a lifetime in his expression, the sinking sensation that even with all those hundreds upon hundreds of years of living, he's a mere child in comparison. The same way he's a child to Spain, a child to them all. "I'm sorry," is all Benigno says, sweeping in to press his lips to his forehead. "You remind me of my son. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression."

His kindness makes Romano sick to the stomach. He shoves him back, angry, _mortified_. "W-what the fuck?" he demands, drawing a sharp, painful breath, "What...what the fucking...y-you bastard, leading me on, dammit-"

Benigno only looks on, pity in his eyes. Rising to his feet, he apologises again. "I should go. I'm sorry, little Italia," he murmurs, fingers drifting briefly through his hair, gone again before Romano bites them off. Sighing, he hoists his satchel onto his shoulder, lifting to unhook the chain hanging around his neck. "I think you are very lost. You can be much more than this. You can have a good job and be a good husband to a pretty wife."

He drops the chain at Romano's feet. Romano's growl seals his retreat and he's alone again, the town sinking into sleep, the ocean perpetually vigilant. He wishes it would creep higher and drag him into the depths. When he can bring himself to look, he sees a small, solid silver crucifix standing upright in the sand. After closing his hand around it, he curls his arms around his knees and spends the next hour heaving with sobs.

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><p>Spain is awake when Romano staggers home. Even if he hadn't stumbled into the hallway cabinet and sent the vase on top cascading, Spain would probably have smelt the unmistakable stench of seven brandies, a gulp of sherry (most of which is spreading pink on his shirt) and a hearty glass of sweet wine, from five kilometres away. He's on his feet immediately; at first hoping Romano hasn't injured himself, then remembering he's <em>fuming<em>and then some.

He winces when he sees Romano sprawled on the hallway floor, snoring like a bull. Anyone else and Spain would laugh, but it only makes his heart hurt when he effortlessly lifts him into his arms and carries him upstairs, pulling off his shoes, his trousers, waistcoat and shirt. Something stops him from attending to the rest; he doesn't stop to consider what that something is, pulling cool sheets up to Romano's shoulders.

When he leans down to brush lips to his temple, to pray for a good night's sleep to find him, Romano sighs softly and whispers, "'love you," in Italian.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**I feel like a terrible person. Sob. I'm a total loser.**

**Thank you for reviewing Part 2 : )**

**Seduce a Stranger**

**Part 3**

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><p>There's a fine line between four points of inebriation; the first drink steadies Romano's nerves, the second gives him confidence, the third makes him tired, the fourth makes him sick. Having drunk twice the amount he ordinarily does the previous night, Romano wonders whatever possessed him, cursing the morning sun teasing curtains not nearly thick enough to keep it at bay.<p>

His head feels like it's splitting in half, so he rolls away from the light, pulls a pillow over his head and pretends the world doesn't exist; difficult when he forms such an imperative part of it and can feel the thrum of a million heartbeats like the pounding of a thousand horses. Their cries are louder lately, distant and echoing like voices at the bottom of a very deep well, nails clawing the walls, helpless and desperate...

Things are changing. It's easier to bury his head and go back to sleep. Sometimes he tries to focus on the words, late in the night when the air is hot and the world is quiet. He wonders if he's going mad, arms over his head, trying to block out the noise. Or maybe he's lived with Spain for too long to recognise the words that were born on his tongue and imprinted by his fingertips.

In the end, it only makes him miserable, so he does what he's always done and hides until the sun rises again.

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><p>Spain hadn't gotten much rest, rising early, checking on Romano (sleeping soundly, curled on his side), bathing and heading into the fields. He finds Romano in the kitchen when the mid-afternoon sun rolls in, sitting cross-legged at the table. He has one of Spain's shirts on (his remaining clean one), and a pair of tight, brown, knee-length breeches sprinkled with flour and a sticky jam smudge. That shirt used to reach Romano's knees. Now it barely scrapes his hips.<p>

"You're not going out today then?" Spain asks, hooking his sunhat over the corner of a chair back. Romano licks his finger clean of jam with a smack and shakes his head. He looks entirely disinterested in Spain's presence, smothering jam over another slice of bread and tearing off a healthy chunk. Spain sways on his feet before joining him at the table, shuffling his chair close until their knees are touching.

Romano flinches. Spain looks surprised, hand falling in midair when he reaches for his hand. They stare at one another for a few moments, Spain asking a thousand questions with his eyes. Romano answers precisely none, putting one foot to the floor to shuffle his chair back. His body curdles with heat, bubbling up his legs and his arms, arriving pleasantly and maddeningly between his legs. He crosses them slowly and awkwardly.

Spain hasn't noticed. He considers admitting he knows Romano went out last night, but it's an advantage over him, so he keeps it to himself. They both think they're the masters of secrets, but Spain has strategy and experience on his side. Romano is just a fledgling who has escaped the desperation of war and he has no real clue how devious Spain can be.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, fiddling with the jug of fresh tomato juice on the table. The smell drifts into the air, sweet and spiced. He dips his finger in and suckles it clean. "I thought I heard you get up in the night. Do you feel well?"

Romano's jaw tightens. "I slept the same as I always sleep," he answers. "I just went for a piss; I'm allowed to do that, aren't I?"

"Of course you are. You're allowed to do as you please," Spain says, deadpan, icy. He hadn't intended to spit so much venom. It feels good to unleash some of it, for a moment at least. Romano is watching him steadily, gauging the meaning behind his words. After a while he shrugs, body losing the tension and sinking again.

"Yes, I fucking am," he answers, devouring the rest of his late lunch. Pushing the plate away, he hops to his feet and stretches, muscles sleepy, but eager. Spain's eyes focus on the purple fingerprints on his hip for the brief second they're exposed. Gone again, he lifts his eyes to the back of Romano's head when he stomps out of the kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, Romano pauses. Then he continues to his room to bathe and dress. He won't go out tonight, confidence shaken. Instead he sits on his windowsill with a pile of dogeared paper on his lap, doodling his feelings with charcoal and dirtying Spain's last clean shirt.

Spain is surprised when he strolls into the sitting room with a book under his arm. He makes himself cat-like comfortable on the tatty sheepskin rug in front of the hearth, lying on his front, upper body propped on his elbows. Spain is sitting with his feet on a sagging ottoman. He indulges in the sight of him, eyes following the curve of his spine, over his rear, down to the leg swinging back and forth, and up again. "What are you reading?" he asks softly, reminded of the days Romano would perch in his lap and demand to be read to, later drifting off in his arms, plush-cheeked and fresh-faced.

Now his jaw has the angles of a young man and the blemishes of life's struggles.

"_Del Primato Morale e Civile Degli Italiani_," Romano answers, turning a page. Spain cocks his head.

"Where did you get that from?"

"My bastard brother sent it to me."

"Oh. What's the story about?"

Romano lifts his head from the book. "It's not a story, idiot. It's by Vincenzo Gioberti. It's about the ingenuity and invention of my grandfather and the Italian people and how they can rise to their former glory."

Spain's smile is tight. "Sounds very interesting," he says, almost a whisper. "Can I read it after you?"

"Your Italian is terrible."

"Maybe you could read it to me, then. I like to listen to you speaking."

"I'm not reading it twice."

"Well, you haven't gotten too far in," Spain replies, smile twitching. He drops his feet to the floor, sitting up and leaning on his elbows. Patting the seat next to him, he continues, near to pleading, "come and sit with me. You can start again and we can read it together."

"I don't _want _to fucking read it for you, you bastard!"

"God _dammit_, Romano, stop fucking _swearing_ all the fucking _time_!"

Romano jumps, Spain's voice sudden and loud and deep. He jumps again when his name is punctuated by the resonating thud of the book on Spain's lap against the curved table at the side of his seat, staring up at him. "Don't tell me what to do-"

"I damn well _will_tell you what to do, Romano," Spain interrupts. Approaching quickly, he bends to sweep Romano's book into his arms, snapping it shut. "If you insist on being a selfish brat then I refuse to allow you to read anything at all. When you learn to show me some respect for once, you can have it back."

Romano scoffs, rising to his feet. "You can't just take my possessions. I'm not one of your fucking colonies."

Spain stares, eyes shivering. Then, teeth gritted, he swiftly leaves before his anger makes him do something he'll regret. _Del Primato Morale e Civile Degli Italiani_is safely tucked under his arm. When the household is asleep, Spain takes it downstairs and burns it in the fireplace.

* * *

><p>Romano hurls a tomato as far as he can. It splatters deliciously, seeds and juice spreading a satisfying distance. The next one goes a little further, scattering a gathering of gulls in the nearest tree. It bounces and rolls harmlessly to a stop. Afterwards, Romano plods down the sandy embankment to the shore, kicking off his shoes and sinking his toes into the surf, the water soothing his aching feet.<p>

Spain hasn't spoken to him for days, avoiding even being in his vicinity. After three days they literally collided in the hallway leading to the kitchen and whatever reason Spain had for going there was quickly reprioritised. It only hurt a little when he walked away without a word.

Romano pinches his belly, wondering if he's lost weight. Along with giving him the silent treatment, Spain has also left him to make his own meals whilst still creating mouth-watering dishes for himself. He hasn't even given him a few coins with which to enjoy himself.

In Romano's opinion, denying him food is far worse than ignoring him. He never expected he would even think it, but he's growing tired of eating tomatoes with bread and olive oil.

Heading from the water, he makes himself comfortable on the sand, stretching star-shaped. There had been too many hours spent here, watching the ocean deceiving adventurers while their loved ones waited in reality; too many hours spent pleading and praying for their safe return; too many hours watching the sand grow muddied with tears.

Memories everywhere. Sitting up, Romano dusts the sand off his feet. They don't quite fit into his shoes anymore, so he has to wear them with the heels trodden flat the way they wear them in the east, or so Romano has learnt from Spain's tales. He believed in everything when he was younger. Wholeheartedly.

When he arrives home, Spain is sitting on the porch playing trinket tunes and tickling phrases on his guitar. Romano watches from a few feet, recognising the melee of introductions to those songs that used to send him to sleep or cheer him up or make him sad, remembering Spain's face, pouring his heart and soul and love into every note. When Spain pauses, he hears Romano's humming and looks up, eyebrows lifting for a moment. Walking nearer, Romano perches nearby, staring straight ahead. His voice is soft, as if he's testing it out, "Why aren't you singing?"

Spain strums once, twice, three times, four. He gets to his feet then, balancing his guitar against the ivy smothering the outer wall. "Nothing to sing about," he answers, then disappears inside.

* * *

><p>There's a newcomer in town. His hair is dark, long, curly. He has eyes like forests and a smile like sunrise and gives Romano all of his attention, buys him some dinner at the seafront and the nicest bottle of red wine he can afford. When he plays with his hair and tickles his neck, it makes him melt. Pliant, he asks if he can kiss Romano before he asks if he can put his hands on him. When he comes between his fingers, it feels like revenge. When he comes in Romano's mouth, it tastes like shame.<p>

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the reviews! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!**

**Seduce a Stranger: Part 4**

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><p>Come ten o' clock, Spain mock-drunkenly drapes himself around Romano's shoulders, expecting to get shoved away and told in not so many words to leave him alone, that he reeks of sherry, that he's heavy, all the usual excuses. When Spain makes a pained little noise in the back of his throat (because despite his devious intentions, he's missed being able to hold Romano), it makes his heart a little light to see a shiver of guilt in Romano's eyes.<p>

All the same, he slinks upstairs to his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack so he sees the shadow creeping by two, three hours later, on his side, feigning snores. Spain is impressed; Romano is quiet, toes noiseless on the mosaic. He feels a little foolish for never having noticed, wondering how many nights the prisoner has slipped by the jailer unnoticed. Pushing the hurt aside - fizzling embers of anger, how _dare_Romano treat him like an idiot - he slides out of bed and into his awaiting pumps. They're quiet enough to avoid detection, so he feels safe staying close, just off the path, shielded from the light of the moon by a wall of pines.

He curses when he loses track of Romano where the road is black, the lights of the town offering a beacon guiding travellers to its booze-addled belly. For a few long minutes he thinks Romano has sensed him the way he always used to be able to when he was much younger, but then he's illuminated ethereal beneath the set of oil lamps flanking the gates to town and beyond, so Spain hurries his pace to catch up as he slips back into shadow.

Romano loiters by a street vendor distracted by two pretty girls. He's licking his lips and eyeing the selection of delicacies, sweet and sugary and tempting. Spain watches sneaky fingers snatch a pudding just before he calls for the attention of the girls nearby, his prize concealed behind his back. His smile is thick with charm, swollen with so much blistering seduction that even Spain's cheeks fill with heat.

Kissing gloved fingers, complimenting figure flattering corsets (French fancies undoubtedly, imported from Paris), Romano already has their admiration, their _want_ of this youthful Italian overflowing with raw energy and a hot, electric thrum they can't place. _Are the rumours true_, their glances to one another say, not that Spain can tell, enraptured the way he is.

When Romano moves on, Spain is quick to follow, winding around night strollers out to enjoy the crisp sea air. If matters were less pressing, he would pause to the do the same, but as it stands, he's seen Romano flip the hat from his head and sweep the coat from his shoulders and duck into an inn with so much grace and grandeur Spain wonders where he learnt it. Not from him, he thinks, lazy shouldered and slump-footed bumpkin that he is with clothes once fancy and hair once tidy. Certainly not from him.

His sense of urgency increases threefold when he enters and his tricksy protectorate is nowhere in sight. The belly of the place is heaving, air thick with throat burning vapours that cling and wind. The stench of smoke makes Spain's eyes burn, knocking him sideways like the barrels of memories hurtling towards him; youth wasted on nights of debauchery in paradox of God's work.

It isn't something he's proud of; something he ever wanted Romano involved with; something he wants to take him away from, hide him and cradle him and keep him pure forevermore.

He grabs a drink for drinking's sake, a rich sherry to warm his blood and fuel his heart. "Excuse me," he says to the lady behind the bar, heavy bosomed and thin lipped, red paint bleeding from the corners, kiss smudged over her cheek. "Have you seen a young boy around? About so-high, dark, reddish hair, green eyes? Attractive boy."

"The Italian?" she responds, her accent thick. "Caught a glimpse o'him a few minutes back. He don't hang around for very long usually if nowt catches his fancy. He's probably left by now."

Spain curses his luck, casting his eyes over the room once again and then heading back into the night. He pauses to think; where would Romano go? It strikes him that he has no idea. He hadn't expected Romano to be _here_, let alone any other establishment similar to this one

Pushing thoughts of what he may be up to to the back of his mind, he walks. He walks and he walks and he walks; walks until the skin starts to wear thin on his Achilles and the bobbles of wear under his arms make the tiniest hole appear; walks until he's certain he's explored the town three times over. Then he sees him.

Bold as brass, but hardly as clear. Romano is on his knees, head bobbing with devilish ease, lips folding around the unimpressive shaft at his eye level. Spain's every thought screeches to a skidding, tumbling halt. Stood where he is, beneath the light of a lamp looking into the shadows of the stone stairs that lead to the shore, he _could_ be mistaken.

But unless a younger brother has come to town, that rebellious curl is impossible to mistake. Romano is sucking a man's cock.

_Romano_ is _sucking_ a man's _cock._

Spain's feelings are chameleon swift. His fingers follow the path of his emotions. When he opens his mouth to shout, the noise is faint. He doesn't want to say Romano's name, doesn't want to acknowledge this is happening, praying his eyes are playing cruel tricks. His heart insists Romano would never betray him. His head reminds him of every lie and sneer. It's okay to be angry then. It's okay to hurl himself towards him; to grab some stranger by the throat and _squeeze_ and threaten bloody murder; to whisper in his ear all of the cruellest ways to send a man to hell.

He doesn't hear Romano's voice until he feels the fists in his back, staggering in surprise at a force he's unused to.

The second his grip is slack, the stranger is gone and Spain doesn't see red but sees Romano, tantrum tears and verbal abuse. He can't hear a word, staring at the glisten of white on his red cheek and lips swollen pink. He wants to hurt something. He wants to wrap his fingers around his little throat and throttle him and beg whywhy_why_ _would you do this to me_?

But all he can do is stand there helpless, the buzzing in his ears like the echo of gunshots. When it fades, Romano is still yelling and crying and stamping his feet and waving his arms and throwing excuse after excuse after excuse.

This child isn't his anymore.

"Why?" Spain asks, voice sore and rough like too many nights spent screaming.

"Fuck you!" Romano yells, kicking sand at his legs. He scrubs his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "Why the fuck did you follow me? _Why_? Why did you have to follow me!"

Disbelieving. Spain thinks the answer is quite obvious. Perhaps his predisposition isn't one of quick wit and intelligence, but even he could see the forest amidst the trees. He shakes his head, jerking his hand towards him and shrugging. "How many has it been?" he asks, voice surprisingly steady. "Was that the first?" He knows it wasn't. He knows what practise looks like.

Romano turns away. "None of your damn bus—"

"You owe me honesty, Romano!"

"I owe you fucking nothing!"

They both fall quiet, Romano's arms folded across his chest. He looks so young like that, so painfully, miserably young.

"Did...did I do something?" Spain asks next, distressed. He takes a step nearer, then changes his mind, falling back again when Romano flinches. "Is that why you feel the need to..."

He can't say the words. Romano looks disgusted. "What? Suck cock? I fuck too, Spain. Wanna know how many times? I've lost fucking count."

Spain's heart aches. "You...you let them...you let them do that...to you..."

Romano snorts with laughter, dragging his fringe out of his eyes. His hand falls to his hip, stance boy-cocky. "You know fucking nothing about me, Spain, clearly," he says. Shrugging, he adjusts his powder grey waistcoat, wiggling the neckerchief central. Smirking, he continues, "I'm the one that does all the fucking, not them. They love it, the perverted old bastards. What do you take me for, some girly little queer sobbing on his back? Oh please. You won't catch me bending over for anyone."

Spain wets his lips. He doesn't know who this is, sultry charm and heart melting smiles, talking strangers into bed easier than talking an opium addict to poppies. "Oh, and just for the record," Romano adds, shrugging. His tongue sweeps into the corners of his lips, slurping erotic remnants away. "It's not just the men."

For a while, both of them are quiet. Spain stares, intense, trying to make sense of it all, trying to work out what he did to make Romano turn to this, turn _into_this. "Am I a bad boss?" he says, voice a trembling whisper Romano has to strain to hear. He presses cool fingers to his forehead, swaying, wondering how his head could conjure a nightmare this horrifying. "Have I really been so terrible? Are you punishing me?"

Romano's eyes flicker with emotion. He hates this, the way he makes him feel, the guilt. It makes him vicious, enough to lie to cover his tracks, to bury the real reasons beneath hate and anger and hurt. "What reason would I have to punish you, Spain?" he asks, sugar sweet, arms folding across his chest, confident now, on the surface at least. "You only abandoned me for years on end to take care of those fuckers in the Americas. You thought bringing back some useless trinkets would make it okay, too."

Spain sags, shaking his head. "I didn't, I...it...it was for you, all of you, I just-"

"Got greedy, I know!" Romano interrupts, throwing his arms in the air. He realises how much it all still hurts him, letting it fuel his anger, though Spain doesn't deserve it, any of it. More than anything or anyone, he has atoned for his sins. "I've heard you say it a thousand times before. I've heard all of the excuses. But now you've fucking lost it all, haven't you, bastard? Serves you fucking right for what you put me through."

Spain winces. Romano knows he's done some damage, the air shifting, thick and hot and smouldering. Spain's hands are trembling like he's trying to hold back a beast. "I said I was sorry for all that. I _said_..." He falters, fingers flexing. "This isn't you."

"You don't know _me_, Spain."

Spain takes a moment to clarify. He grits his teeth. In one step he's in front of him and with one slap Romano is back on his knees. "You're right. I don't," Spain murmurs, fingers tingling with heat. "And I don't think I want to know you anymore, Romano."

Shattered, Romano climbs to his feet. Spain only watches him walk away. When he can no longer see him slouched with burden, Spain sinks to his knees, buries his head in his hands and he sobs so noisily that even the sea leaves him be.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


End file.
